Saving Movie Night

Carl Rinsh’s 47 Ronin is a dog with fleas. Imagine two hours of the most stilted dialogue and ham-fisted mangling of a Japanese legend that started out as pretty cool. Throw in superfluous witches, ghosts, and a fumble-tongued, sort-of-white-looking action hero and you’ll get an idea of what we wasted part of our lives going to see.

“I’m sorry I dragged you to that,” was my comment as we left the theater.

“It’s okay. But aggh, the editing!” Mr. Tungsten exclaimed. “For practically every fight scene I was like ‘back the fuck up’.”

We were united in our disdain for the meandering plot, the too-quick cuts, and every actor except Hiroyuki Sanada, who’s character Ouishi kept getting his name mispronounced. It was like everyone spent half the movie saying “delicious” in Japanese. All of the movie’s inadequacies were discussed over Coronas and a big helping of queso and chips. Big Bang Theory was on; we were at home. There’d been prior talk of sceneage, but we were by then both so bitchy. Of course that was before Mr. Tungsten wiped a blob of queso off our plate and gave me his fingers to suck.

The first time was more of a tease. Our gazes met over his hand. He left his fingers inside of me for longer than a beat. The second time it was with greater purpose.

By the third time, I was moaning as I sucked. The cheese was gone, but I didn’t want the moment to end, so I put my head in his lap to nuzzle the erection he’d grown for us and quipped, “leave it to you to seduce me with nachos and beer.”

“So easy,” he murmured, stroking my hair. Soon after he stood up and guided me off to bed.

Mr. Tungsten reached into my scene-clothes closet on the way in and pulled out a kimono, short and black with ko furisode length sleeves. I put it on with grey bikini panties just before he finished the ensemble with a box tie. It was all terribly appropriate, given the movie, but he wasn’t role playing and once I didn’t mind. This night was all about us. It was about him opening the kimono beneath the ropes and torture-teasing my nipples until I wriggled and moaned. Then he gave a trigger word that dropped me into a hypnotic trance.

A box tie, without reinforcement at the shoulders.

You could say this word. I could say it. Anyone except Mr. Tungsten could say it and there would be no effect. But when he says it, suggestions he has carefully implanted over several years ensure that I fall deep — just like a princesse’s golden orb into the pond where her Prince awaits. It doesn’t matter if there’s music on. It probably wouldn’t matter if there were other people around. He gives the commend and down I go.

Kids, please don’t try this at home, at least not until you’ve practiced a lot or have a knowledgeable partner you really trust. Mr. Tungsten has been doing this for nigh on 20 years. He doesn’t brag or show off at parties, but he has, as the kids say, mad skills.

Every time we play the suggestions are reinforced. I’ve been having trouble climaxing lately, even on my own, so last night he issued the reminder that I always have permission to come unless he expressly forbids it. On top of that, my orgasms will be easier and stronger than ever before. But.

A goddamned but.

I would now have to seek permission.

“If you want to masturbate, you have to ask me. If I’m not around, you call me, and if I’m asleep, you fucking wake me up.” Mr. Tungsten quietly snarled into my ear. “Got it?”

“Yes,” I sighed, still in trance. It was an oh God/oh fuck moment. My voice was high. Japanese girls and women have been pitching it that way since well before the Tokugawa era that gave us 47 Ronin because high-pitched voices sound cute. Submissive. Meanwhile, Mr. Tungsten’s tone was more threatening than a hundred lordless samurai. I shivered with fear and delight.

After the trance he proceeded to bring me to a very long, very intense climax. The feeling plateaued like I was a steam furnace with all its needles in the red. His peak was just as forceful. Surprise, ferocity, bliss — he went through a range of expressions as he exploded inside of me with my ankles locked behind his back, toes curled like we were in an ukiyo-e print. It was as if the suggestions he’d reinforced had worked on him, as well.

My mind was so sublimely empty when we snuggled up afterwards. Like satori. On a different plane. My wrists throbbed pleasantly from where the ropes had cut in as I’d lain on my bound hands. The realization that this was the first time I’d finished while in rope bondage dawned, but slowly, doing nothing to break up the feeling of ease that wrapped me in comfort, just like his arms.

When it was time to be verbal, to debrief, one of the first things I said was “woah”. He echoed the sentiment. It seemed, somehow, to fit.

Careful now:

This blog deals with mature themes including sexuality, BDSM, erotica, LGBT, the mating habits of aliens, and married people arguing about porn. If you are underage or think you might be offended by such material, please direct your attention elsewhere.

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